War Story

by Derek Robinson

  “That can’t be Bunny Bradley, can it?” he asked. “Over in the corner. Scratching his ear.”

  “Quite impossible,” said Yeo, without looking. “Bunny had a stutter, if you remember.”

  They ate cold poached salmon. Essex considered what Yeo had said. He drank some Blanc de Blancs and stopped chewing while he considered it again. “I don’t see how that stops him scratching his ear.”

  “Oh yes. Bunny was at Mons in 1914, eating a beef sandwich, when he said to his sergeant-major, ‘Those chaps look like b-b-b-b-b …’ So the sergeant-major said ‘Beg pardon, sir?’ and before Bunny could answer, the Boches had shot him.”

  Essex stared at him. Yeo shrugged. Waiters removed their plates.

  “So who’s that in the corner, then?” Charlie Essex wondered, frowning. Ogilvy selected a crusty bread roll and threw it, hard. They watched its fall. “D’you mean him?” he asked.

  Essex shook his head. “No. Why? D’you know that chap?”

  “Never hit him before in my life.”

  “He looks a bit annoyed. In fact he looks hopping mad.”

  “Probably just concussed. It’ll wear off.”

  Foster stopped a waiter. “Be so kind as to bring us another bottle of this appalling filth,” he said. “In fact, bring two.”

  A bread roll whizzed past Ogilvy, he fended off a second, but the third struck him in the face. He licked some crumbs off his lip. “Not concussed after all,” he said. He collected the rolls and hurled them back. Somewhere nearby a dinner-plate shattered. No heads turned. “Bunny would have liked this,” Yeo said.

  “Hey,” Essex said. They all looked. “Wait a minute,” he said. They waited. “How do you know,” he asked Yeo,”that Bunny was going to say ‘Boches’, if he got pipped before he could say it?”

  Foster pointed with his fork and called, “Look out!” A wine glass came sailing over a chandelier and, amazingly, bounced off their table. Behind the top table, on a platform, the band of the Coldstream Guards struck up Gilbert the Filbert, the Kernel of the Knuts. On the far side of the room, waiters dodged as two staff officers began fighting each other with chairs. “Ripping tune, that,” Foster said.

  Kellaway had been billeted with Paxton and O’Neill. He was lying on his bed, bloated with pork and roast potatoes, listening to Paxton describe the way Ross-Kennedy had crashed, when O’Neill poked his head through the window and interrupted. “The tender’s ready,” he said. “Get your bonnets on.”

  “I’m awfully sorry,” Kellaway said. “I didn’t think I was included.”

  “Everybody goes on a CO’s party. It’s like the Sunday School’s annual trip to the seaside: good clean fun and all the lemonade you can drink. I can’t remember the last time anyone got raped at a CO’s party. You won’t need your boilerplate drawers, Dexter.”

  Paxton turned his back on him and said: “I happen to be Orderly Officer.”

  “So what?”

  “The men’s letters have to be censored.”

  O’Neill blew a long, descending raspberry. “Give Corporal Lacey five bob and he’ll censor them. That’s what everybody else does.” Paxton uttered a high-pitched snort of contempt. “Do they, now? Well, I was taught not to shirk my duties.”

  “Well, you’re a fart.”

  “And you’re a clod.”

  Kellaway said goodbye and went out. Watching from the corner of his eye, Paxton saw O’Neill leave. “Swine,” he whispered; but that was not enough and he looked around for something to kick, saw nothing suitable and so eventually shouted “Clod!” quite loudly.

  “I do most honestly and sincerely believe,” said Frank Foster,”that after cricket and Salisbury cathedral, England’s greatest gift to the world has been roly-poly suet pudding.”

  “Shut up and eat,” Ogilvy said. “We’re all waiting.”

  “My parents got married in Salisbury cathedral,” James Yeo said. “Quite pretty inside, so my father said, but a bit cramped. You had to keep your elbows well tucked-in.”

  “Rather like the trenches,” said Essex.

  “Finished.” Foster spooned up the last fragment. “Ready.”

  They all raised their plates. “One-two-three-go!” said Ogilvy. The plates were smashed against each other. “Cheese!” Ogilvy shouted to a waiter. The bits of plate they held were tossed over their shoulders, to join a layer of debris that made a constant crunching under the waiters’ feet.

  “I think it’s significant,” Foster told them,“that more men get elbowed to death in the trenches than are struck by lightning on Tuesday afternoons in Maidenhead.”

  “You think too much,” said Essex.

  “The fruits of a good education.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Ogilvy. “To the education of good fruits!” They all drank.

  Rufus Milne drove the tender, which was unusual, and he drove it at a furious pace, which was surprising. The roads were cobbled and the wheels were shod in solid rubber; traffic was fairly heavy and Milne’s right foot danced from accelerator to brake and back again.

  It took them fifteen boneshaking minutes to get to a small town called Montvilliers. Milne let the tender trundle around the main square, its headlights washing over a drifting population of troops – a few French, some Australians, but mostly British. Only the occasional French soldier wore red and blue; otherwise khaki was everywhere. Khaki puttees, khaki breeches, khaki tunic, khaki cap. The world was brown. A French civilian, all white moustaches and rusty black clothes, looked wrong, looked foreign. “That’s for us,” Milne said, and parked outside a bar-café called Le Trictrac.”Are we late for something?” Appleyard asked; but Milne was already out of the cab and heading for the bar.

  “What’s the panic?” Tim Piggott said, rubbing his backside. “He nearly got us up to flying speed, for God’s sake.”

  “Beats me, old boy,” the adjutant said. “I’ve never seen him like this before.”

  The airmen trailed into the bar. The atmosphere was a warm stew of tobacco smoke, wine fumes and noise. Milne had found an empty table, and a waitress who looked about twelve years old was bringing him bottles and glasses.

  “You are a sweet little thing,” he said, kissing her hand,”and later on I shall devour you in one bite with an apple in your mouth. Sit down, you sluggards. Have a drink. You’re just in time for the cabaret.”

  “The way you drove, we were nearly in time for eternity,” Goss said.

  “If it’s built to do sixty miles an hour,” said Milne,”it’s obviously meant to do sixty miles an hour.”

  Jimmy Duncan was gazing about the room. “I don’t see any cabaret,” he said.

  “Who speaks Russian?” Milne was pouring wine by running the bottle up and down a row of glasses. Nobody answered. “All right, who speaks anything? Cheers.”

  They all drank. “I’ve got a bit of Spanish,” said an observer called Mayo.

  “That’ll do. Remember to wave your arms.” Milne climbed onto the table and shouted for silence. Eventually the gentle roar of talk faded to nothing. “Gentlemen, tonight we are privileged,” he announced. Derision came back like an echo. “We are indeed privileged,” he cried,”because here tonight is a member of the Russian royal family, none other than His Highness Prince Boris Romanoff!” Milne led the applause. Mayo reluctantly stood, waved once, and would have sat down if Milne had not seized his shoulder. “Prince Boris would like to say a few words in his native tongue,” he said. “I shall translate.”

  Mayo clambered onto the table. He didn’t look like a Russian prince. He was short and stocky, slightly bow-legged, with very wide shoulders and a heavy black moustache. He looked more like a gamekeeper or a ghillie.

  ” Buenas noches”, he mumbled. “El menu, por favor”.

  “His highness says you are the bravest of the brave!” Milne cried. “Everyone in Russia is thrilled by your deeds of tremendous courage. People stop each other in the street to exchange tales of the glorious Gloucesters, the wonderful Warwicks,
the invincible Irish Rifles, the incomparable Cameron Highlanders…” Men from each regiment cheered at the sound of its name until the combined din made Milne pause. “Together we shall squeeze the Huns from east and west until their eyeballs pop out,” Milne told the troops. Huge cheer.

  “Guadalahara”, Mayo announced.

  “Prince Boris recommends to you a traditional Russian drinking game known as the Boat Race,” Milne said. “Each team has eight drinkers. Kindly pick your team! Prince Boris has generously agreed to buy the drink for everyone.”

  “Caramba!” Mayo said; but in the storm of applause his voice was lost.

  The waiters had retired. The King’s health had been drunk. The smoke from three hundred cigars rose and mingled and mellowed the light from the chandeliers. Decanters of port slid softly from hand to hand. A great, cathedral hush possessed the room, with only a rare and well-cushioned belch to point up the silence. Lord Trafford, swaying slightly, making an occasional irrelevant gesture but without a note to assist him, was delivering his presidential speech, as tradition required, in Latin. He was reaching the end of his second joke.

  “Omne ignotum pro magnifico,” he said, “et certe errare est humanum”. He paused to let that sink in, but only briefly; his main thrust was yet to come. ” Et fortasse virtus incendit vires, sed non licet in bello bis peccare.”

  Everyone saw the point. It was a show-stopper, and Trafford knew he had ample time to sip his wine, while their laughter surged and sank and surged again, until it was crowned with warm applause. Trafford smiled at the friendly blur which, without his glasses and with a mixed litre of wine inside him, was all that he could see. He knew there were three jokes still to come, each one a sure-fire crackerjack.

  “Prince Boris will start the Boat Race by dropping his handkerchief,” Milne announced. “Are you ready?”

  “Enchilada”,Mayo told him.

  “Not you, fathead,” Milne muttered. “Them.”

  Eight teams were lined up: four from infantry regiments, two lots of sappers, one set of gunners, and an entry from Hornet Squadron. Each team had eight men standing on a bench, and each man held a tumbler brimful of red wine. As Mayo raised his handkerchief there came a shout and a crash from the back of the team of the Warwickshire Regiment. “Sorry, sir,” their leader said. “We just lost a bloke. No head for heights, see.”

  “Let me take this opportunity of reminding you all of the rules,” Milne said. “No man starts to drink until the man in front has emptied his glass, turned it upside down and put it on his head. Anyone who cheats begins again with a full glass. Puking, or falling off the boat, disqualifies the whole team. Good, I see the Warwicks are at full strength again…”

  Mayo dropped his handkerchief.

  The leaders of each team began drinking, gulping, gasping, sometimes choking and spluttering. The tumblers were deep and the wine was raw. All around, troops roared encouragement, stamping and whistling.

  “I say, old boy,” the adjutant said. “D’you think this is such a good idea?”

  “Piss off, Uncle.”

  “Half of them are fairly bottled already, you know.”

  “Yes, I do know. And the other half are going to be completely bottled soon, you watch.”

  The Warwicks lost to the Gloucesters by a couple of moüthfuls. The Irish Rifles romped home after a young sapper tried too hard and poured a flood of wine up his nose. Two Cameron Highlanders got into a fight while their team was leading the other sappers, fell off the bench and were disqualified. Hornet Squadron came from behind to beat the artillerymen.

  “The draw for the semi-finals,” Milne declared,”is the Gloucesters against the Irish Rifles and the sappers against the airmen.”

  “Look here, Rufus,” Piggott said, hiccuping painfully,”why don’t we call a halt now?”

  “What? And let the others down?”

  “Thing is, if we win again we’ll have to drink again.”

  “Twice, at least. The finals are best of three. That’s how they do it in Russia. Don’t they, Boris?”

  “You feeling quite all right, Rufus?” Piggott asked.

  “Fine. You look bloody awful, but I feel fine.”

  “I don’t care how many nuns got raped in Belgium,” James Yeo said. “That speech was the biggest atrocity of this or any war.”

  “Bags me those chandeliers,” Essex said.

  “Better hurry,” Foster advised. He was lobbing coffee-cups over the next table. Nearby, there was a violent splitting and rending as a group of staff officers began ripping a door from its hinges. A brigadier wandered by and punched Ogilvy in the head. “That’s for hitting me with a bread roll,” he said amiably, and punched him again. “And that’s for missing. Bloody awful marksmanship.” He wandered off, dodging a crossfire of crockery and crystal. “Told you he wasn’t Bunny Bradley,” Foster said. “Not a hint of a stutter.” Ogilvy picked himself up. The first chandelier came down like a bomb.

  The Gloucesters beat the Irish Rifles, and the airmen beat the sappers.

  “They weren’t really trying,” said Douglas Goss. “Did you see their number seven? He kept spilling a bit so that he had to be topped up again.”

  “Ask me, they should be disqualified,” said O’Neill.

  “Can’t do that, old boy,” the adjutant pointed out. “They’ve already lost.”

  “Don’t deserve to lose,” Mayo said. “Wouldn’t be allowed to lose in Russia.”

  “The Gloucesters are ready,” the adjutant said.

  Piggott groaned. “They must have guts like firebuckets. Come on, then. Where’s Kellaway?”

  “Throwing up his guts into a firebucket,” O’Neill said.

  “Prince Boris will take his place,” Milne declared.

  “I’ll get another firebucket,” O’Neill said.

  “Russian royal family never throws up,” Mayo told him.

  “In Russia, I have a serf who throws up for me.”

  The contest had attracted a lot of spectators from the square. In corners, a couple of private fights were going on: sprawling, ineffectual brawls between men too drunk to punch. The adjutant watched it all with the eye of experience. “You know, old man,” he said,”at this rate the military police are bound to turn up soon.”

  “If they care to enter a team, Uncle,” Milne said,”we shall be more than willing to entertain the challenge.”

  One of the gunners performed the starting ceremony. The leader of the Gloucesters’ eight was so keen that he choked on his wine, and his team never recovered. Hornet Squadron won the first leg handily.

  The night was warm and still. Bats hunted moths by the light of a moon that was as white and pure as a new gas mantle. A trail of translucent cloud lay beside it; otherwise the sky was clear and rich with stars. If you stared at them long enough it was possible to feel the Earth turning. Or maybe that was dizziness helped by a stiff neck. Paxton rubbed his neck, and the universe went back to behaving itself properly.

  He was sitting in the pilot’s cockpit of an FE2b. It had been a very boring evening for him. After he had censored the men’s letters there was nothing left to fill his time. He could have sprawled in a chair in the mess and drunk whisky, but his lunchtime drinking had left him feeling that whisky was overrated, and he was too restless to sprawl for more than ten minutes, so he went for a walk.

  Inevitably it led towards the aeroplanes. Some were inside canvas hangars; some were in the open, tied down at the wingtips and the tail in case the wind strengthened in the night. Paxton strolled around one, touching the nose, stroking the wings. The smell excited him: burnt engine oil, the tang of dope, a whiff of petrol, and something new to him, something harsh and peppery that might possibly be cordite.

  Nobody was watching; the camp was asleep. And besides, he was Orderly Officer wasn’t he? The canvas cover peeled off the cockpit easily and he climbed in. The seat fitted like a snug armchair. His feet found the rudder pedals and his hands closed on the joystick. A slight move, a tin
y pressure, and he sensed an answering tension in the control cables. Paxton took a great breath through his nose. The way the plane sat forward on its tricycle undercarriage, nose-down and tail-high, he could easily imagine he was flying. There was nothing to be seen in front but the night, nothing above but the stars. He stared at them for a long time. When he looked down he saw a figure walking on the airfield.

  It turned out to be Corporal Lacey. Paxton put his revolver away. “What are you doing out here, corporal?” he asked.

  “Picking dandelions. They abound.”

  “Pretty silly thing to do, isn’t it?”

  “Perhaps. It depends on your yardstick of silliness. Man took millions of years to emerge from the swamp and now look at him! Armies and armies of soldiers, all squatting in the longest ditch in the world. It’s really quite funny. Provided you’re not in the ditch, of course.” Lacey plucked another dandelion and blew its crown of seeds away.

  Paxton was annoyed by Lacey’s lack of patriotism but he was also taken aback by his casual reasoning. He said: “You ought to be careful. You’re in danger of becoming a pacifist.”

  “I am a pacifist.”

  “Are you, indeed?” Paxton felt challenged. It took him a few seconds to remember the correct response. “And what would you do if you saw a German soldier raping your sister?”

  “I’d get the brandy bottle. The poor man would need comforting after a dreadful experience like that.”

  Paxton scoffed. “It’s clear you’ve never seen anyone being raped.”

  “It’s clear you’ve never seen my sister. Rape is her only hope. She prays each night for a speedy German invasion of Bognor Regis.” Lacey smoothed his hair. “Which reminds me: how are you getting on with Mr. O’Neill?”

  “The man’s an absolute pig. ”

  “Ah.” Lacey demolished another dandelion. “I was afraid of that. You see, your difficulty is that you’re not Toby Chivers.”